by Cecy Robson
Her response gives me pause. “What?”
She glances around, as if someone else spoke. Nope, that bit of crazy was all you, Chels.
Chelsea glares, like I’m the lunatic here. “I said, I’ll have you fired for this.”
She towers over me, but I’ve had my share of smackdowns and I’m not afraid to fight. I close the space between us. “Is that so? Who’s doing the firing, Marco or Bill? Which senior partner has your back, Chelsea? You’re lazy and inept. The only attention you’ve earned is from spreading your legs like a pair of wings!”
“Get out.”
The air stills, lodging painfully in my chest. Ryker stands in the doorway, his hands balled into fists. Aside from the time I ran into him, I’ve never seen him so furious.
“Fine,” I snap, storming toward the door. “Good luck getting any work done with bleached bitch Barbie!”
He turns his gaze upward and swears. “Not you, Olivia.”
“Huh?”
Ryker doesn’t bother elaborating. He walks to my side, keeping his glare trained on Chelsea. “As of this moment, you’re banned from the building,” he tells her. “Take your purse and leave. You can return for your personal items with a security escort only.”
Chelsea bursts into tears, composes herself, then starts crying all over again. When she speaks, there’s not trace of sadness, only enough anger to burn.
She points to me, her hand shaking. “Olivia assaulted me. I can sue her. I can sue you and this whole damn firm.”
Steel carries more warmth than what Ryker offers. “Try it. Your attorney won’t stand a chance against us.”
Chelsea’s demeanor dissolves, whatever emotions she’s feeling numbing her. She walks past us slowly, her steps unsure as if treading through rough terrain.
What. The. Hell?
“Chelsea?” Ryker calls. “Don’t forget, we have surveillance of your actions from the first moment you stepped into this building.” He motions to the ceiling where a security camera flashes a red light.
Chelsea takes off running. Ryker trails her. I rinse my hands quickly and alert security, hurrying after them. With just a few strokes of her keyboard, Chelsea can access a great deal of confidential information. We can’t allow her to leave with anything damaging.
Security meets us in the hall just as my office phone rings. Ryker and I exchange glances. The line is secure. We know who it is. I race into the office and throw myself across the desk to answer it. “MacGregor and Santonelli.”
Brielle’s voice shakes, thick with tears. “O-Olivia?”
I hit the button to speaker. “I’m here, Brielle. So is Ryker.”
Ryker grips the edge of my desk. “Are you all right?” he asks.
“I-I’m fine,” she stammers. “Everything’s fine. Just fine.”
The fear in her voice echoes with a ghost-like air. Ryker tightens his grip, his voice calm considering his anger. “You motioned to have the restraining order dropped without consulting me. Has Pence been in touch? Did he make you to do this?”
“He didn’t make me do anything. I-I-I wanted to.”
If she were here, I’d hug her. “Why, Brielle?” I ask. “You’re so close to being free of him.”
Brielle doesn’t cry that sad soft way some women do. She cries like a child who is scared and hurt. “I don’t want to lose him. He l-loves me, Olivia.”
“What?”
I clasp Ryker’s arm to calm him. He fixes on my hand and takes several controlled breaths. “Tell me what’s happening,” he adds more calmly.
“Pence is different. He’s ch-changed.”
I can barely understand the words coming out of her mouth. She sniffs, trying to collect herself enough to speak. “He’s asked me to forgive him. He wants us to b-be together. Like a real family.”
This is the same man who’s choked her and forced her to have sex with other men as he beat her.
Ryker leans into the phone. “Brielle, listen to me. You’re scared. I don’t want you to be. The restraining order and all the steps you’ve taken will help you finally be safe and happy. Don’t let him take that away from you.”
Brielle’s choking breaths clench my heart. But it’s the low whisper I catch in the background that sends it racing. “Tell him, he works for you. That it’s your decision. Not his.”
Pence is there with her. I dig my nails into Ryker’s skin. He can’t hear him, but I can. “Pence is coaching her,” I whisper. “I can hear him.”
Ryker looks ready to break my desk in half. He motions to my cell phone. I snatch it off the desk along with Brielle’s contact information.
“Where are you?” he asks Brielle.
The calmness in his voice is miraculous. I can barely dial. I rush out of the room and into the hall, whispering into the phone. “This is Olivia Finn at the law firm of MacGregor and Santonelli. One of our clients is in danger and being held against her will. I need patrols at the following addresses.”
The screaming from my land line has me jetting back in. “Help me,” Brielle pleads. “Help, me!”
A gun blasts.
Then silence. Only silence.
“Hello? Hello? Ma’am?”
My cell phone slips from my grasp. I stare at the office phone, unable to answer the dispatcher.
Ryker swears, charging from the office like a storm.
Chapter Four
Two weeks have passed since Brielle’s murder. Her death was ruled a home invasion gone wrong. It was horrible and wrong. Worst of all, we couldn’t prove Pence was involved. Ryker hadn’t heard his voice and all I had was my super-secret pixie hearing as evidence.
Pence’s legal team had him out on bail within hours. With no victim, all pending charges against him were dropped. I was miserable, convinced life was so unfair . . . until pieces of Pence were discovered floating along the Hudson River.
No one knew who killed Pence and not too many people seemed to care. Pence had made his share of enemies in life. What struck me was how he died, sliced in half from left shoulder to right hip, clean cut. The coroners and detectives were baffled as to what type of device could have made such a precision cut, especially once it was determined Pence was alive pre-cut.
I wish I could say he didn’t deserve it.
I returned to my cubicle, to my Marco duties, and to Ryker barely doing more than nodding in my direction. I thought our time helping Brielle would bond us and that maybe we’d become friends. I was wrong. We’ve barely spoken.
When Friday arrives, I gather my courage and knock on his office door. “Yes?”
I open the door and smile. I hadn’t shared his office for long yet my gaze wanders to the empty space where my desk once stood. It seems so barren.
“Hey,” I say.
Today Ryker is wearing a dark blue silk shirt with a silver tie. The jacket hangs from the open door of his closet. He shuts his laptop and offers me a curt nod. “Olivia.”
“Hey,” I say again. Well, isn’t this going just peachy? “May I come in?”
He motions me to one of the leather chairs perched in front of his desk. “How can I help you?”
His throaty timbre makes me smile. I missed it and hadn’t realized until now. “It’s been a rough few weeks, hasn’t it?” I ask.
A flicker of understanding dances along his strong features. Aside from that, and the breaths he takes, he doesn’t react. My thumb grazes over the stack of mail I need to leave at the desk for the courier. “Ah, Dahlia and I are going to the Glen tonight. To celebrate the long weekend.”
“That restricted dance club in the city?”
No. Any and all Fae are welcomed. Just not any humans. “Yes. But before then, we’re having dinner in Hoboken at Leo’s Grandevous. I was wondering if you’d like to join us for dinner.”
“You want to have dinner with me.”
It’s more of a statement than question. My toes curl and I find myself blushing. “Dahlia will be there, too,” I add quickly.
My blush deepens when he doesn’t do more than look at me. Why is this so hard?
There’s a knock on the door. I welcome it like a boxer following a brutal round.
“Come in, Judith,” Ryker says.
His new assistant hurries in with a stack of folder, her steely gray hair tied into a tight bun. She lays out each folder in front of Ryker. I recognize a few motions and a letter to the superior court judge, along with a name I didn’t need to see.
“Here is everything you asked for, Mr. Scott,” Judith says. “I’ll be at my desk should you need anything else.” She smiles before hurrying out. “Nice to see you, Olivia.”
I barely hear the door shut, the name on the documents making me see red. “That says Bryan Spackler.”
Ryker threads his fingers together. “It does.”
“He’s the football player accused of raping that young fan in the bathroom.” I stand slowly. Ryker watches me, exactly as he did when Brielle cried, while she relived everything that monster had done to her.
“Olivia—”
“How can you do this?” I demand. “You’ve seen firsthand how these men torment their victims. How can you go back to representing them?”
He stands and crosses his arm. “It’s not so simple, Olivia.”
A sense of betrayal burns a hole in my stomach. He knew Brielle. He saw how fragile she was and how nothing we did would every erase the trauma she endured. Of all the cases Ryker could take, he took on another high-profile client with plenty of money to buy his freedom and his innocence.
“I’m sure it’s not,” I fire back. “How else will you make junior partner in the next year?”
A slap across his face would have been less damaging than my words. Every muscle in his body tenses as if clinging to life.
He leans forward, pressing his palms against his desk. “You have no idea what I’m doing.”
“Yes, I do,” I bite out. “Believe me, you’re the right man for the job.” I barrel out of his office and down the long stretch of cubicles and offices.
Asshole. Ryker Scott is a complete asshole.
* * *
Dahlia leads me past the long line of Fae waiting to gain entrance into the Glen. Fae can differentiate each other as easily as humans distinguish blondes from brunettes, no matter how good the glamour.
The line extends around the block. All Fae will be allowed in until the club reaches capacity. Humans will be asked to leave, politely or not so politely, by the dragons in their human form at the door.
Dahlia flings an arm around me. “Darling, I don’t like you so sad,” she says.
I lean against her, allowing her exotic fragrance of jasmine and juniper to soothe me. I barely ate at dinner. And if it hadn’t been for Dahlia’s insistence, I would have walked back to our apartment instead of taking the Path into the city.
A brisk walk later and I was still in a hideous mood. “I know. I just expected more from Ryker.”
She kisses the top of my head. It earns us a few hoots and howls from a band of passing sailors and a loud request to, “Do it again, ba-by.”
Dahlia ignores them. “You’re being too hard on him, Livvie. Did you honestly think he’d change everything about his practice? Only take cases for battered children and the elderly?” She shakes her head. “The firm is legendary for their criminal defense and they gained that reputation by defending the worst offenders with the biggest bank accounts.”
“Bill and Marco don’t.”
“Bill and Marco paid their dues, building the firm from the ground up. They’ve reached a point where they can pick and choose who they represent.” She smiles softly. “Perhaps that’s what Ryker is striving for.”
“Maybe,” I reply. “It’s just hard to give him the benefit of the doubt with how easily he switched gears.”
“You’re assuming it’s easy for him, darling. I don’t know the man, but he leaves me with the impression he’s different from the other associates trying to claw their way to the top.”
Her voice trails when she catches the head bouncer’s eye.
Frankie is in his signature black fatigues tonight, his spikey dark hair and brown eyes shiny beneath the overhang lights and his New York accent as loud and bold as ever. “Next person in line,” he barks.
Dahlia smiles. “Enough pouting, Livvie,” she says. “Time to have fun.”
Frankie’s gaze travels the length of Dahlia’s body when we approach. In a dress that resembles poured silver over butt and bosom, she’s received a lot of attention tonight. None of it has mattered to her. Until now.
“Hey, Dahlia. Save me a dance later?”
Dahlia pushes up on her toes and nips his chin in true nymph fashion. “I’ll save you more than that, baby.”
Dahlia calls her friends, “darling.” Only Frankie has earned “baby” status. And Frankie very much knows it. If he were in his dragon form, smoke would puff from his snout in the shape of Dahlia’s figure. A growl of anticipation vibrates deep in his throat. He sweeps his lips over hers before opening the velvet ropes and motioning us through.
“Nymph” equals easy access, anywhere, anytime.
“Hey, Liv,” Frankie says as an afterthought.
I wave, laughing. “Hey, Frankie.”
We disappear into the dark hall that leads into the club. Frankie is my pal. To Dahlia, he’s a lot more. “You’re taking him home with you tonight. Aren’t you?”
Dahlia tosses her long black braids behind her. “Of course. We have Monday off, why not take advantage of it?” She glances over her shoulder even though the door is shut. “Too much time has passed since my last night with him.”
For a roomful of beings with sensitive hearing, the DJ is blasting Cardi B a little too loudly. I shout to be heard. “That’s because you won’t commit. Dahlia, Frankie would marry you if you’d let him.”
She laughs. “Maybe one day I’ll let him.”
Lights flash and magical mist pours across the dance floor, allowing privacy to those desperate for touch. Fae aren’t plentiful and neither are establishments for us to gather. That’s what makes the Glen fun. It doesn’t just bring my kind together, it frees us. No glamour, no pretending. We discuss magic and the old realm, curse Death for destroying it and celebrating our survival.
With a shimmy and a shake, lavender and silver wings sprout from Dahlia’s back. She stretches, relishing the feel of simply being herself. She winks at me, her glimmering lavender eyes and lips radiant.
A drunk mountain troll stumbles between us. She releases my hand, allowing him through before clasping my hand and guiding us through the gyrating swarm of bodies. “Let’s have a drink, darling.”
I squeeze her hand. Fae are affectionate beings. In the human world we cage our need to caress, embrace, and make love. It’s a way to keep our identities secret and another way to prevent Death from finding us.
Bill’s broken glamour was a result of a stolen kiss. It revealed his form to a human and worst of all damaged his talisman. Our talismans remain the only way to hide from those who hunt us. Without them, it’s a death warrant with our executioners often seconds from being collected.
A banshee sprints away from the bar and through the swarm of Fae. With all the grace of swan, she leaps into the air and straddles the male who entered behind us. “David!” she screeches. “Sorry,” she adds when we groan and cover our ears.
“David” loses his tiny accountant persona, morphing into a giant cyclops with a long blond Mohawk. He laughs, catching the banshee when her legs break free of his widening waist.
She screeches. Again. The thought of that voice in the throes of passion makes me cringe. “David is going to need serious earplugs to get through the night,” I mutter.
Dahlia giggles, her laughter like wind chimes in the soft breeze. “Perhaps. But it will be worth it, darling,” she sings.
I’ll bet.
The club smells of lust and desire. Elves, fairies, and dwarves make out on the dance floor. Along the
bar, two garden gnomes are one drink shy from having sex. Their red pointy hats fall away as their tiny bodies roll down the length of the bar.
“Hey!” the giant behind the bar roars. “I’m trying to work here!”
Heat and need presses against my back as the passion escalates around me. No one will go home alone tonight.
Except maybe me.
Dahlia blames my truant sex drive on lack of wings and magic. I’m not certain. I’ve had sex. I just haven’t had any of the good kind. Sometimes, it’s felt nice. Sort of. But it’s never anything like I think it’s supposed to be. When Frankie spends the night with Dahlia, their cries and roars and scorched headboard, leaves me thinking I’m missing out on something phenomenal.
“Hey, Livvie.” Andrew, an elf who charmed his way into my bed, inches toward me. “Want a drink?”
“She would love one,” Dahlia answers for me. She nudges me in Andrew’s direction, smiling as she steps back and bats her wings.
Like a seasoned ballerina, she pirouettes, soaring above me. She lands on the dance floor, moving to the beat the moment her feet touch.
I try to smile. Andrew is cute. Whisky-color waves of hair drape down to his shoulders, his pointed ears pushing through the thick strands. His amber eyes sparkle as he smiles, reminding me of his playful nature. As a third-year surgical resident at NYU, Andrew isn’t pulling in the big bucks yet. But he always looks clean-cut and nice.
Dark jeans cover his long legs and a tight blue Abercrombie and Fitch T-shirt hugs his lean athletic build. I ease away from his lips when he bends to kiss me and twirl in my flirty blue summer dress. “Look,” I say. “We match.”
He laughs, his attention falling to where the hem of my dress teases my knees. “I think you have better legs, gorgeous. Come on. Let’s have a drink. We’ll toast to us.”
I hesitate. I don’t want to lead him on. I also don’t want to be rude. “All right,” I agree.
Andrew orders me a blueberry martini. The giant swears, struggling to grasp the tiny glass without breaking the stem. He roars when he tries to pour the drink and the gnomes almost tip over the glass. “Get a room, ya horny little bastards.”
